


Inheriting the Mantle

by SugarcaneSoldier



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, 幼女戦記 | Youjo Senki | Saga of Tanya the Evil (Anime)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarcaneSoldier/pseuds/SugarcaneSoldier
Summary: Tanya won, and died of natural causes. Being X wasn’t satisfied, and continued to reincarnate her. So he won, and Being X reincarnated him. So she won, and Being X reincarnated her. Tanya has won, time and time again, regardless of whatever situation Being X puts her in. But when Being X decides that he needs to change tactics, she decides to do the same.
Comments: 23
Kudos: 215
Collections: Identity Crisis





	Inheriting the Mantle

The man – or what was left of him – sighed exaggeratedly. It was the day. It was nearly the hour. It was almost the minute. Soon, the meeting would happen, and he couldn't avoid it. He never had figured out a way to, even after all this time.

A tumbler of alcohol – the cheap Muggle stuff – touched his lips. He'd sworn off alcohol a few lives ago – it presented too much of a risk – but with his magical constitution, this stuff wouldn't do anything but give him the slightest buzz, something he could shake off with an exertion of his will.

The carriage clock – the birthday present he'd accidentally torn apart from… who knew how long ago – in his room struck midnight, and he breathed deeply. The clock would have needed to be tuned or repaired ages ago, if it wasn't for magic, and he could honestly say he was thankful to have it. He was getting old again.

As the clock continued ringing – five, six, seven strikes – the world seemed to slow down. On the last one, it stopped. He didn't turn around – he knew precisely where that thing's vessel was – and waited to hear the all-too familiar voice of the nutcracker he'd dragged out of storage and set on his desk.

"X," he growled.

"Tanya," it replied.

He turned around and stared at the piece of wood, incredulous. Then he broke out in to great, booming laughter that was only slightly raspy at its edges. "Tanya? _Tanya?_ I haven't gone by the name 'Tanya von Degurechaff' in ten reincarnations, and that was when I was my own great, great granddaughter," he mused, grasping the side of his face. Rough, scarred flesh met his hands, and he growled again.

He shook his head. "I suppose you want a bit of respect, then? Fine then. I'll restart." He cleared his throat.

"Being X."

"Mad-eye."

He glared at it, and then made his way over to a particularly comfy chair he'd picked up in Diagon Alley years ago. "I suppose that moniker is the best you'll do."

He settled into the chair and propped up his remaining leg on the replacement for the missing one. "Well, here to celebrate the first time I bested you?"

He smirked. He knew the light of the candles in the room didn't do any wonders for his face, casting the entire thing in a terrifying light that only helped to give off the image of a scarred, damaged, paranoid old man, but he didn't much care. No one important was around to see it anyway.

Even if the nutcracker couldn't move, it still looked like it glared, and he laughed. Yes, he'd managed to make it through the Empire's blasted war mostly unscathed – she'd lost a finger or two and more of her sanity than she'd admit. With the Empire victorious, she could have retired to an island off the Mediterranean coast and lived out her days.

But she'd decided to do that world a favor. She'd become an inventor and recreated as many of the advances of modern Japan as she could remember, and then she'd become a business woman and sold her ideas to the world, building herself enough money to ensure that the idea of fascism didn't become anything more than a pipe-dream and that socialism withered into nothingness.

Then, an old woman at the age of eighty-two who was more well known that the king of the country she hailed from, she'd passed on and reveled in the expression on Being X's face. She had wanted to be reincarnated without her memories.

However, the bastard hadn't been satisfied. He never had been, and he never would be.

The nutcracker, modeled after the first one he'd used to speak to her, seemed to smirk itself. "And how well did that go?"

He scowled at it. He'd held the souls of everyone she'd loved – Viktoriya, her descendants, even some of her protégés that she allowed to take over her companies – hostage. He knew that Tanya wouldn't praise him to save the ones that she had unfortunately grown to care for, and he didn't want her to. He wanted her to honestly praise him with as little overt action from him as possible.

Instead, the protection of the ones that she loved hinged on if she won. If she died a peaceful death, they would remain untouched. If she didn't and she hadn't praised him, then they'd be going with her to hell.

And that was how it had been.

Year after year.

Decade after decade.

Life after life.

During all that time, the two of them got together, the same night that the Russy Federation had surrendered and ended the war, to hate each other. And, life after life, there were still people she cared enough about that she would do it all again.

Moody grimaced as he gulped down more alcohol. It wasn't good for his health, but he didn't much care.

Moody settled back into his chair, trying to ignore the thirty-year-old pain in the leg that wasn't even there. "Not well. And this time won't go any better. But it also won't get any worse."

The nutcracker seemed to glare, but Moody just cackled. "You can't win, Being X. I'm too experienced. No one can get me if I don't want them to. I'll die in another few years of natural causes, as always, and then we'll do this again. And again. And again."

There were still people he cared about. Dumbledore – not that he expected to be outlived by that dusty old man – Arthur and his family, Remus, the members of the order and those still in the ministry, and far, _far_ too many others. He wouldn't let them get tortured for eternity because he decided he wanted to get out of what had become a practiced habit.

Moody could almost hear the wood of the nutcracker straining from the abuse its teeth were being put through, and it was music to his ears.

"So, same time again next year? I think I'll stick around until the turn of the century, and then I'll go on an alcohol binge and die of alcohol poisoning. It's not a violent death, by any means. You have any ideas?" he asked, his voice carefree in a way that anyone that knew him in this life would find confounding to the extreme.

Suddenly, the tense atmosphere that had been building dissipated as if vanished. "Yes, in fact. I won't be coming back. Live as you wish; your next life won't be so leisurely."

Moody almost laughed. Leisurely? He'd managed to lose an eye, an arm, and part of his nose, in addition to the litany of scares that marked his face and the rest of his body.

Then, the meaning of the words hit him, and Moody froze, his one good eye squinting at the nutcracker. "What the bloody hell are you talking about? If you-"

The nutcracker chortled. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of touching the thousands of souls you've managed to snatch away from me. You'd be even _more_ obstinate. However, one of your descendants will combat you nicely."

Moody glowered. He'd taken care not to learn about the history of whatever worlds he inhabited; if he knew the history and came to the world in an earlier time and changed it by introducing some invention early, he could make it that one of his past selves had never existed and destroy himself.

Or, he thought it might happen, and he didn't think that Being X would save her if she did manage to kill himself through time travel.

Regardless, it often bit him in the ass, especially in times like these.

But he relaxed a bit. There was only one life he remembered this 'wizarding world' from. "I haven't been Ignotus Peverell in hundreds of years. My spawn has probably spread to all four corners of the earth by now, even if my idiotic brothers didn't trust me when I told them not to trust you, oh mighty 'Death'."

"You'd be surprised."

Moody grit his teeth, still looking dangerously at the nutcracker. But then he shrugged. "What do I care? And for that matter, what do _you_ care? You've been trying to convert me for a couple thousand years, and it hasn't worked yet," he groused. But he knew, deep down, that letting the ignoramus talk was his best bet for whatever scheme he had this time.

The nutcracker's teeth chattered ominously. "It's rather ingenious, really. Once you pass on, I'll have _them_ assume the title 'Master of Death.' Then, in a life or two, you'll battle. With them at my side, you'll be converted, and then I can use you _both_ to spread my holy word."

Moody's eye twitched. "Bold words for a nutcracker."

They both knew it was an unimaginative, overused insult, but Moody didn't care. If they were his spawn, they were at least very lucky and dangerous, and probably skilled, if they were allowed to grow-

"Harry Potter."

Moody was still, for a moment. Then he crushed his teeth together so hard he was sure one of them had probably broken. "James and Lily's kid? He's a boy! An orphan! They were two of the best people I knew from the last war, and-" he shouted, indignant.

The nutcracker's head twitched mockingly, instead of it just appearing to look at him. "Then I'm sure you'll be glad to know that he'll be the one killing you in your next life. Goodbye, Moody. I'll see you when you die of alcohol poisoning, and I hope you're ready to fight Harry Potter. You'll be doing so for all _eternity_ , if need be!"

With that, the carriage clock on his desk made one last gong of noise. The fire began to crackle again, and the soft sounds of the world outside this room made themselves known to him.

Moody was left feeling rather empty.

Then he exploded. The walking stick that he preferred to use – he'd always preferred things closer in dimension to his rifle from that first reincarnation – rushed to his outstretched palm, and the room he was in was torn apart in a rage.

The desk was upended, the clock was crushed, the windows blew apart, and the curtains were shredded. Only the shelves, magically protected, were spared, not that they looked very untouched, from the whirling destruction that was created by everything else in the room going flying.

"BEING X!"

With that, the lights went out, leaving Moody panting heavily in the dark. Scowling, Moody gestured around himself despondently. With only a single spell, the room fixed itself.

Sighing, he sunk back into the comfy chair, trying to think clearly in the light of the fireplace and the candles that had been lit once again.

That Merlin-damned Being X. He'd been so close to finally dying of old age; he'd be able to move on, make sure no one else here was risked. But now…

He reigned in his desire to trash his study again. Some of the books surrounding him were older than he was, and couldn't just be glued back together with a simple 'Reparo.'

He growled as he thought. Master of Death…

He groaned. A stupid fairy tale about amassing all of the Deathly Hallows, sure, but it seemed Being X was intent on utilizing it to try and get at him. He exhaled sharply, grasping at his gray-blond hair in frustration.

No doubt, that blasted Being probably had some plan about arraying the forces of darkness against young Potter to get him toughened up in order to fight him for the next half of forever.

He nodded his head. There was some fiasco about a rogue Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher last year. Maybe that was _his_ doing?

An idea came to him, and he whipped around his walking stick. " _Accio!_ " he shouted, waiting for the latest bundle of letters, well-wishes, notices, and requests to speed towards him. He had been tempted to use the things as firewood, but now…

He undid the strings from around the bundle, and began to paw through them. New invitation to the British Ministry, new invitation to the French Ministry, new invitation to the American Ministry, invitation to Hogwarts, well-wishers, letter from Arthur…

He paused, and then went back. Yes, an invitation to Hogwarts, to teach for the 1992-1993 school year. He had two months' notice to get a supply list and a curriculum ready, and another two weeks after that until school started. Moody began to nod, satisfied at his plans.

Another Summoning Charm saw his calendar hurtling through the house and crashing into…

Moody winced at the crashes. It was probably bumping into too much, but he needed to _move._ He caught the calendar and looked down at it…

He cursed; he had received this letter a month ago and had a day or two to respond. Just his luck. He began rifling through his desk, searching for a bit of parchment.

He'd assess the child of James and Lily, teach him a thing or two, make sure that evil was thwarted…

Make sure he wasn't tough enough to fight him for eternity or stop him from becoming the 'Master of Death' or make him so appreciative of Moody that he wouldn't fight Being X.

He winced as he realized just how dangerous this would be, but he sighed regardless. If he didn't start now, he would probably try and stay out of things and get killed by a stray Killing Curse or something equally stupid. And the only way the people he cared about would survive would be if he died peacefully…

Pen in hand – he didn't care about their stupid aesthetic, and pureblood or not, he had hundreds of years of using _normal_ writing utensils that were easier to handle than quills – he began to write letters.

None for Dumbledore – that was a meeting best handled in person – one for the Ministry, one for Arthur…

His thoughts trailed off as they came around again to his current goal.

Potter. The image of both the Potters he knew filled his head.

He hadn't known James's parents or his extended family well, but they had all been influential in bringing an end to Grindelwald's War. He had even met James's parents, once, during a few years he'd spent in the magical areas of the occupied Germanys keeping the peace and learning the ropes of being an Auror.

James and Lily themselves…

Unconquerable. Fighters. Funny. Caring. Firebrands. Leaders when necessary and upholders of the light…

…Well, a letter to their sprog wouldn't be out of place. He could tell the lad a few things that even his caregivers – whoever they were – didn't know. He'd helped train the boy's parents, after all. He could relate to him.

Probably.

Half an hour later, he stared down at the letters. Things were set to go, but…

He whipped out his wand, glaring at the letters scornfully he would send in a few moments. He began to move his wand. A few anti-interception jinxes should ensure no one but the recipients touched the letters.

He might have been painted as overly paranoid, but when you were facing off against something with the power and ego to call itself god, there really wasn't such a thing as too much protection.

-OxOxO-

Dumbledore sighed, attempting to genially smile as yet another disappointment left an interview. He'd been sending out letters since the moment he'd discovered what had happened with the Philosopher's Stone.

But everyone knew better.

The position was cursed. It was easy to tell just by looking at its history: no one had been able to keep the job for a year.

Once, when no one had shown up, Dumbledore himself had been able to keep it for exactly 364 days, but circumstances had arranged themselves to where he had been forced to get out of the job before he could last the whole year. No one could keep it.

And so those who knew of its curse stayed away…

And those who didn't were either desperate – like that last applicant – or unqualified. Dumbledore sighed again. It seemed that he would have to give Severus the job after all.

He didn't like the thought of losing one of the people best arrayed to infiltrate Tom's supporters if he ever came back, but if no one else came, he'd be forced to risk him falling prey to the curse…

He sighed again. He'd hoped to have heard from Alastor or Remus by now, but those had been long shots. Moody's paranoia meant he wasn't going to take a job that was known for killing or maiming without a bit of prodding, and Alastor always became cagey this time of year.

He could only assume that Remus was out of the country or indisposed. He would keep sending letters and hope that he could get back to Britain in time for next year.

Suddenly, Dumbledore's thoughts were interrupted by three sharp knocks on his office door. He raised an eyebrow at the door.

Curious. He knew few people who knocked like that.

He sighed again as he realized he hadn't been notified of them coming. The wards, once again, hadn't alerted him to whoever this was. It was maddening to not know, but until he fixed the damage Tom had managed to do under his nose, he would remain uninformed at the best of times.

He called out for them to come in and schooled his expression. Hopefully, they would meet his standards.

The door opened, and Dumbledore was almost blinded. Radiant teeth, radiant clothes, and radiant hair clung to the person that stepped into his office, who could be described by the singular word _flashy_.

Dumbledore almost frowned, but he kept up his genial front. "Ah. I assume you are here to apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position?"

The man flashed another smile, sweeping further into the room. "Indeed. Although I am sure you already know who I am, formality should never be overlooked. I am Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of _Witch Weekly's_ Most Charming Smile Award!"

Dumbledore suppressed a sigh, and conjured a plush chair that was made to be just a bit too soft. At the very least, the man wasn't a Death Eater. Even they had standards, and someone _this_ self-aggrandizing would have been killed by Tom for being so… arrogant.

The man could, of course, be attempting to fool Dumbledore. He doubted it, however. He was a good judge of people, when he wasn't distracted by his jobs. Besides…

A quick peek with Legilimancy told him that he was correct, and that the man's thought processes were too self-absorbed to be able to come up with a lesson plan that didn't involve himself, much less attempt to murder students.

"Well, Mister Lockhart," he said slowly, noting the man's discomfort at being called something as simple as Mister, "your titles are certainly… lengthy." The peacock seemed to preen at that, and Dumbledore was honestly wondering how _this_ person had even heard of the opening.

He seemed too self-absorbed to think of anything but himself.

"We do, of course, need to ensure that you can properly teach. Just what do you plan to teach the students about?"

"I'll teach them by giving them access to the best example possible: myself!"

Dumbledore honestly feared that he would begin by talking about his hair or his teeth, but the man surprised him. "We'll be going through my books, learning about the spells and creatures I have fought over the years. The younger years will learn more of the theory and some supplemental work, and the higher years will be put through recreations of the beasts I have fought!"

Dumbledore nodded along. The man was good at giving speeches, at least. He opened his mouth, about to accept the man as teacher – this one seemed to be able to hold his wand straight, and he had exactly three hours to get a teacher – when his fireplace roared to life.

Dumbledore glanced at it curiously. A Floo call wasn't exactly out of the question, but most would usually just owl him, supposing that he had things he would rather do.

They were wrong. Dumbledore would much rather talk with people by Floo and catch up with friends, acquaintances, or even people who had accidentally connected to his fireplace, but he had so much to do that he had to do other things.

A particularly beat-up piece of wood, scarred and gouged, stared back at him from the fireplace and startled him out of his thinking. Dumbledore stared at it for a moment.

It blinked, and Dumbledore realized it was just Alastor.

He blinked once in confusion. Alastor? When Dumbledore hadn't gotten a letter in the first week, he'd assumed him to be a lost cause.

"Albus," he growled as both a greeting and a warning that he was coming through. Dumbledore smiled and nodded. Alastor would come through the fireplace regardless of Dumbledore's wishes, so it was best to just give permission.

Through the fireplace stepped a legend. One eye that bulged out of its socket and a missing right leg, Alastor had fought hard in the last war. He had, quite literally, filled half of the cells in Azkaban. Dumbledore stood to greet the man, who was staring at everything in the room suspiciously, both eyes spinning.

He looked to the room's occupants. "Fawkes."

The bird trilled happily, taking flight and coming to rest on the other man's walking stick. Alastor seemed neither comforted by the addition, nor upset by it, as usual.

"Albus," he acknowledged with a nod.

His eyes fell on Lockhart, staring menacingly. The blonde, lilac-dressed man sank into his chair, trying to back up from him. Dumbledore tried to save the fop from whatever Alastor was contemplating doing to him to get him out of the room by greeting him fondly.

"Alastor, old friend! What brings you to my office today?"

The other man growled, with most of him turning to face him. "I wanted to take you up on your job offer."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. Usually he would try and go in circles with things like this, but he seemed to be oddly forthcoming. "Really? I had thought that, after nearly a month with no response, you didn't care for the job?"

He glared, but Dumbledore just smiled. After a moment, he stopped trying to bluff his way out of an explanation, muttering, "Didn't read the letter. Thought you wanted to go over another batch of those Muggle sweets."

Albus shook his head, admitting that maybe he'd sent one-too-many letter to his friend about sweets that he didn't care for. The only two indulgences that the man ever seemed to care about were chocolate and coffee, even if he always complained that the quality of both was subpar.

A movement of his wrist brought his wand into his hand, and another chair sprang to life. Alastor sank into it, letting his walking stick stand on its own and sighing. "I'm getting old, Albus. And rusty."

Moody paused.

He knew Being X was sure to try something, to test either himself, the boy, or probably them both. The leftover Death Eaters seemed to be his best bet. "I wanted to pass on what I've learned."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose again, and he remarked to himself that they were getting quite a workout today. "Any particular reason?"

Moody shook his head, chuckling to himself. He couldn't tell him the truth, obviously; Albus would think he had actually lost his mind this time. He leaned forward in his chair, sending what he hoped was an unreadable look towards his long-time friend.

"Call it a hunch."

Dumbledore nodded, but said nothing. Moody cursed internally; he'd been hoping to get the story of what had happened last year from the old man, but it seemed that he'd need to rely on hearsay until he had time to figure things out.

The physically older man turned to the foppish peacock sitting in the room. "I apologize, Mister Lockhart, but it seems that Alastor will be teaching this year. I wish you the best."

Lockhart stood, marching towards Dumbledore. Moody intercepted, holding out a stiff arm to block him from getting any closer to Albus and fixing him with a glare colder than any Killing Curse. The man shrunk. "I… suppose he will be, then. I wish you the best!"

With that, the man retreated from the room. Alastor turned to Dumbledore, who was staring at him skeptically from behind his desk. "Alastor. Why did you stop working at the ministry last year? If you wanted to pass on what you learned, you would have stayed there."

Moody smirked internally. He'd loved the paranoid persona he'd set up for himself, because people only asked him questions when they thought he was behaving unusually. Otherwise, he could do as he pleased in the name of 'Constant Vigilance.'

"I felt I'd done my part, and I wasn't going to work for someone as easily bought as Fudge."

Dumbledore nodded, and Moody asked him a question of his own. "What house was I in?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, I suppose very few people know that information. You were a particularly ambitious Slytherin, even if no one has ever figured out what that ambition really is."

Suddenly, a voice sounded from behind Dumbledore. "I still think you would have been a wonderful addition to _any_ of the houses."

Moody just glared at it. The blasted thing had been very reluctant to sort him at all, considering he had learned more magic than Hogwarts could feasibly teach him with the number of worlds he had been reincarnated to.

He had managed to work out a deal with the cloth, though, and the thing had sorted him into the house he was least inclined to go into.

After all, if someone had something ambitious that they wanted to accomplish, getting sorted into Slytherin was like holding up a sign that literally screamed 'suspect me!' He still regretted not forcing the hat to do what he wanted, but that might have irrevocably damaged the thing.

"What happened last year? I haven't looked into it, but I heard one of your teachers actually _died_ ," Moody questioned, taking out his hip flask and hoping to get the story.

Most thought it contained some sort of potion or alcohol, and while he _could_ do that, he much preferred to drink water, since it was hard to hide poisons in something that always tasted flavorless.

Dumbledore sighed. "Last year, the longtime professor of Muggle Studies became our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He took a sabbatical to Albania, to get a bit more experience. He came back skittish, but I put it out of my mind. Unfortunately, it turned out he had become possessed."

Moody shot out of his seat. "Possessed? How in the hell did someone like that get passed Hogwarts's wards? They shouldn't let anything like that passed them."

Dumbledore winced, but he remained silent. He'd had needed to lower their security, in order to allow the Philosopher's Stone through, since it was _technically_ a bit dark.

But most of the higher grades of alchemy were, and Nicolas had been so worried about his life's work falling into greedy hands…

Doing so had, unexpectedly, allowed them to be weakened further by Tom. He hadn't thought to suspect his teachers, however, and his passive Legilimency scans had told him that Quirrell was the same as always.

Obviously, Tom hadn't let his mental abilities dull while without a body.

He relayed exactly had happened last year – the break in a Gringotts, his reason for weakening the wards, the Philosopher's Stone, and Harry Potter's role in it all – and after a very drawn out sigh, Moody admitted to himself that Harry Potter had to be related to him to get as lucky as he had.

When the war had ended, he'd thanked the lad for ending the fighting almost single-handedly and knocked back a drink. He'd mourned the child's parents.

But after that, he'd let him slip out of his mind as his life began to settle down. Being X didn't usually test him more than twice a life, and he had thought that another magic World War Two and the British Wizarding War had been it.

A mistake, obviously. They talked a bit more; about curriculum, books, prices, his lesson plans, most anything. A bit of reminiscing about the people they'd lost.

"Well, Albus, I'll be seeing you. I'll send you the specifics of the books I want to teach them in the next few days. Need to see what's in stock, what's affordable." With that, he rose, and made to thrust a hand into the small tray that had Floo powder in it.

Before he could, it jumped out from underneath his hand.

He turned towards Dumbledore, whose wand had summoned the Floo Powder and who looked entirely too smug. "Actually, Alastor, if you're so insistent on passing on what you know, I think I know someone you might be interested in."

He glared harshly. "Dumbledore, for the last time, I'm _not_ taking on a protégé. Not until _you_ do," he shot back smugly.

Neither had ever taken on anyone to learn directly from them, and this was one reason. Dumbledore always found someone he thought could use a bit of teaching, and Moody countered that he should do it, if he wanted it done.

Dumbledore was always too fearful that his knowledge and power would be misused, so he rarely progressed the arguments bey-

"She's a Metamorphmagus."

 _That_ gave him pause.

Those were rare.

 _Impossibly_ rare, even. While he really didn't know the exact numbers, they were really only spoken of as being one or two in a generation _per continent_ , maybe more in Asia and Africa, where wizarding populations were largest.

He licked his lips. The possibility to train one, to even learn about their abilities…

He stared at the fireplace, for a moment, contemplating just getting the small box of Floo powder he kept on his person, and then he cursed. "Fine. Start talking, and I _might_ take a trip to the Ministry."

He paused, then stared hard at Dumbledore. "She _is_ working to be an Auror?"

Dumbledore, pleased as punch, began to talk, and Moody added another task to his exhaustive list of things he needed to do. He'd retrieve his nest egg from Gringotts, and then spend the rest of the day planning.

Dumbledore, watching the man leave through the Floo, stroked his beard. Moody had seemed a bit less than totally convinced that everything around him could possibly be a trap. Maybe he was coming out of that shell he'd built around himself?

Dumbledore shook his head, nearly letting out a chuckle. As if!

He looked at the papers he had on his desk and sighed. He was unsure of how he was going to convince Minerva and Severus that Alastor was a good idea, but he would manage.

-OxOxO-

Moody glared at the passersby, noting that Diagon seemed especially happy today. He couldn't blame them; it was beautiful, the beginning of school was fast approaching, and families were trying to spend time together.

Moody stalked down Diagon, only slightly annoyed at what he was doing. The goblins were, by their nature, very tricky. He knew that from his first time in this world, and he knew that what he was doing was probably going to have unforeseen consequences.

Unfortunately, the possible second rise of Voldemort – and hadn't Dumbledore been oh so evasive about the exact mechanism by which that racist bastard had survived? – against a populace that really would rather he be forgotten, meant that this was necessary.

The last time, Voldemort's rise had been slow, and people had chosen their sides just as slowly as the lines were drawn. This time, people were not going to be happy about his possible return, on both sides of the political spectrum.

Therefore, this was necessary. Staring up at the building, he knew that.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

He walked forward, stalking into the lobby of Gringotts. The Moody family had had an account, but he had withdrawn everything he had after the last of his family had kicked the bucket, deciding to donate most of it to the DMLE and keep what he needed to live with him at his house.

Securest place in Britain or not, he only trusted himself implicitly. No one else.

Searching for a free teller, he quickly found one that only looked a bit worse than himself. It looked down on him, as they all did. "State your business, stringent one."

He grit his teeth. They'd given him that stupid moniker when he'd drained the vaults. He didn't make any signs of outward aggression, however. Even he would be hard pressed to escape from this place, especially with how every Goblin had their eyes and weapons trained on him.

"I am here to reopen Vault 203."

The goblin blinked at him, aggression and hostility draining away. Then new emotion bloomed: anger and fear. Moody smirked. They must have been getting tired of holding onto a vault that was more like a safety deposit box, with how he had once stipulated that none of the wealth inside was to be loaned out.

"That's right. I'll say it again, since you seem disbelieving. Vault 203. Go get your superiors, goblin."

With a snarled "Follow me," Moody was off, winding through Gringotts and making sure his enhanced eye never strayed from the back of the goblin ahead of him. He'd been warned not to let it wander on pain of death the last time he'd visited. He didn't really think that order had stopped being in effect, even after all of these years.

Soon, they came to a set of doors that were too small for him. He suppressed a growl as the goblin in front of him walked through the doors, and then he began to go through.

He stuck his right leg forward, bent under the doorway, and then brought his left leg through. They were probably reveling in the discomfort and pain they imagined they were causing him, but he knew that they'd have to be outwardly respectful soon enough.

He glared at the goblins present in the room – the teller he had spoken to, what was presumably its superior, and several guards clad in goblin-made armor standing stock still in an attempt to be intimidating – and then sat down in the chair that was too small for them. They seemed to take pride in the small discomfort, but Moody quickly surprised and angered them by taking off his leg.

For the paranoid Moody to take off his leg in such a situation meant that he didn't think he'd need both legs to take them on, and he was aware just how insultingly hilarious it would be for a one-legged man to hop about and take them down. He just didn't care.

As per every other visit he had made, they didn't begin with any sort of introduction. "You claim to be able to open Vault 203?" it asked, glaring at him.

He nodded slowly, eyeing the goblin in front of him. He was just as impeccably dressed in the standard suit as every other goblin in this place. They didn't seem to care much for showing off through clothing in his few dealings with them, something he assumed came down to their desire for money.

The goblin seemed to growl at him, but Moody only raised an eyebrow. The goblin stood from its desk, motioning for him to follow it.

Soon, they walked through one of the doors that led to the roller coaster-like ride into the depths of the place. He just enjoyed the endeavor, happily reminiscing about flying through the skies of the Empire.

An expected voice from the other side of the cart spoke up, and his magical eye spun around to see its owner. "How is it that _you_ are related to the owner of the vault?"

He smirked, not even turning his head. "Relation isn't a requirement for ownership. Any may attempt and access it."

He cackled internally as he saw the goblin deflate and take its claw away from the lever on the side of the cart. That would have dropped him several hundred feet, resulting in an agonizing death for those who weren't aware of some of Gringotts's older protections.

Just the same as when he had _first_ bought those protections when he'd given the goblins enough knowledge of running economies and making weapons and using magic to allow them to fight wizards and witches evenly.

The cart began to slow down, and Moody, shaking away the memories of his first life in this world, picked up his walking stick and made his way towards the vault.

Towards his vault.

Oh, it had been a long, _long_ time since he'd last been in this world, but he had been here before. The presence of this vault confirmed it.

The goblin, staring at his back as he walked towards the door, was grinning madly. He probably thought that he, like everyone else, would get violently dismembered upon entering the vault and have what was left of them spat back out.

Moody, however, knew how to access the vault. As he came towards it, he didn't bring out some imaginary key that could be dug out from a specific patch of land every hundred years, and he didn't speak a phrase in a version Japanese or Imperial Standard German.

Instead, infusing a bit of magic into his hand, he twisted the knob that jumped out of its surface. He spent a moment in the doorway, watching gleefully as the goblin behind him cried out in shock.

Sighing happily, he stepped through the door and quickly closed it. Like everything else that he left lying around whenever he came to a new world, it had been locked so that only he could open it. Not someone with his blood or one of his descendants, but only someone with his _specific_ soul could do it.

He surveyed the vault, trying to see if anything was out of place. He couldn't find any fault in the room that might have been called a museum exhibit, a bank vault, or a bedroom, depending on where you looked.

The gold and silver? No, it was all still there, having been turned into pure bars in case the currency changed from Galleons to something more sensible over the years. It all still seemed to be in place.

The books? Yes, the bookshelf was still there. It contained several books that he was sure would be worth more than the money in the vault, and those were the muggle ones that seemed to have been made scarce by the ravages of time.

The stockpile? That too was in place. It had a few weapons from a few different eras – swords and shields, flintlock pistols, and even a rudimentary rifle he'd managed to recreate. Moody, however, didn't pay them much mind; he would be using magic, mostly, and he didn't really need to blend in.

Of course, he also had a rifle that was much more powerful than any of the one in the vault for if he needed one.

He drifted towards the trunks that had been stacked on the far wall. The locks said that they hadn't been accessed for a few hundred years, and the contents – old, failing Invisibility Cloaks, brooms that had long been outpaced by modern counterparts – were still there.

So, too, was the bed. Moody didn't know what the future might have held, and if he had been on this version of Earth while some sort of apocalypse was going on, having somewhere that was several miles under the ground to hide in would have been a good idea.

He then tracked towards the pedestal in the center of the room. Several things sat on it, bathed in light now that he had come back. The spells still held, preserving them as if he had just put them down.

A small knife sat on the pedestal, taking up most of the room. He'd bought it from the goblins with the understanding that he was not 'renting it for the rest of his life,' but buying and keeping it. That had driven up the price twelvefold, and they had told him that if one of his descendants got killed and a goblin found it, they couldn't stop them from taking it.

That had been fine with him. He just wanted their promise that they wouldn't be trying to enter his vault to claim it.

He pocketed it, and then moved to the next item. It had been a hassle to produce one of them, but he had been able to create this world's version of a philosopher's stone. He hadn't had to do something insane like sacrifice a city to make it, even if it _had_ cost a fortune.

Of course, he only used it for its metallurgical properties. Being X knew that if he ever attained immortality, Moody wouldn't ever give up his life, and Moody knew better than to try and reach immortality these lives.

Being X took steps to ensure that Moody was besieged endlessly every time he had tried, and Moody knew that trying in the modern age was a one way ticket for a jet fighter or some other bomb to find and kill him in a freak accident.

Moody had been attacked by a wandering band of Muggles, a wandering band of wizards, and then a wandering dragon when he'd tried this method out hundreds of years ago.

He hadn't wanted to chance a wandering band of dragons to show up, so he'd never tried to make the Elixir of Life again. He had tried to gain immortality in his next life, but that had been his twelfth – and last – real attempt at outsmarting Being X that way.

He quickly scooped the stone and its box into another of his pockets. The Flamels had lost their last year, according to Dumbledore, and Moody didn't really think that he'd need the money. He'd fashion himself another dozen bars of gold or so, and then send it to them.

It was always good to have friends in high places, after all.

Finally, he delicately picked up a crystal vial and placed it in a secret compartment in his wooden leg, securing it to the inside of the cavity with a Sticking Charm. He was, honestly, just slightly worried that it would break.

It was, after all, Basilisk Venom, a corrosive substance with a pH lower than -40. Everyone he had talked to in his many years of life had told him they didn't have any idea how it was even able to travel through the body without simply falling through the unfortunate soul that got bitten by one other than 'magic.'

He had been unhappy with the answer, but he didn't need to know why it worked to use it. The stuff could burn through _anything_ , including handcuffs and prison cell walls. The only way he was sure that he'd be fine with having it on the inside of his leg was that the vial had been a basilisk fang.

Moody turned his eye around and began to wave about his walking stick. Everything in the room began to shrink itself down and fly towards him, and Moody sighed in relief as he cast another Feather-light Charm on his coat.

It wouldn't due to have it suddenly fail and send him crashing to the ground, especially since he would be heading into the ministry to reassess the Auror Office, the DMLE, and anyone else that he felt he could have trusted more than everyone else a few years back. He needed to make sure that they were fine and in control of their facilities, and then…

He scowled. Then, he'd need to find this Metamorphmagus. Dumbledore had told him the girl was currently training to be an Auror and that she hoped to skip some of the more tedious processes and qualify by 1994.

"For the back pay," he said, dropping two tiny dots of gold out of his pockets and canceling the Shrinking Charm on them, watching as they grew to full sized bars of gold. The goblin struggled to pick them up, but he seemed a bit happier.

Moody hardly noticed. He was wondering how hard he should push the girl, if he should train her at all, or if he should push her into quitting. He was rather busy, after all, and it would take quite a bit of potential to impress him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: And so, another Master of Death story is born, with a bit of a twist: a different protagonist has been cursed with the affliction long before Harry Potter ever was. Despite the new form, Tanya – who will be referred to as Moody from this point on, unless his far past comes up – is as crafty as ever, especially with centuries of battle, politics, and magic under his belt.
> 
> I promise no consistent upload schedule with this one – I've got other things I'm more interested in to worry about – but I think that there are criminally few Harry Potter crossovers with Youjo Senki, a problem which I'll single-handedly rectify!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! Please comment about your ideas of what the hell could end up happening. Will Harry be normal, or will he already be a time travelling, dimension-hopping alternate version of himself? Will Moody decide to oust Fudge using semi-legal means? Will he go to Hogwarts and train the best and brightest to be the Neo-203rd Imperial Aerial Mage Battalion?
> 
> Who knows, but I hope your looking forward to it, when I get around to it!


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